


A Matched Set

by arysteia



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bats and Robins, Families of Choice, Gen, Orphans Thermidor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-23 03:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/pseuds/arysteia
Summary: To be fair, they do all look alike.





	A Matched Set

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiffElderberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiffElderberry/gifts).



Dick was in the shower when the phone rang. Probably longer than he should have been, since his skin was beginning to prune up, but patrol had been rough the night before and it felt like his bruises had bruises. He didn't often spend a lot of the money he had access to as a member of the Wayne family, but never-ending hot water and an infinity shower was one luxury that felt utterly justified.

When he got out there were three missed calls and a handful of voicemail messages on his cellphone, as well as a flurry of text messages.

He ignored the calls and opened the first text. It was from Alfred, and unusually terse.

**Minor emergency. Come at once.**

Damn it, what constituted a _minor_ emergency in their world? It couldn't be anything too serious, or a text would be the least of it. It was two in the afternoon, surely if anything had gone wrong on patrol last night he'd have heard about it by now. He dropped his damp towel and struggled into his jeans one-handed, thumbing to the next message while he did so.

**Not related to wildlife or geological features.**

He breathed a sigh of relief. Okay. If it concerned neither bat nor cave then it couldn't be that bad. Damian had probably set the library on fire and needed help fixing it before Bruce got home.

**Family matter. Better you.**

That should have been reassuring, but wasn't really. Better than who? Surely not Bruce. Alfred might secretly think Dick was better at dealing with Damian's eleven year old crises than Bruce was, but he would _never_ say so. Better than the other Robins? That would mean it was Bruce that had caused the problem. Well, of course it was. That was no real surprise. But he'd been actually _trying_ recently; what had he done now?

Sighing, he sent Alfred a quick reply as he stepped into his shoes.

**On my way.**

There was no further response.

* * *

There was no sign of obvious trouble when he arrived at the Manor, security gates undamaged, long driveway up to the house undisturbed, so he rode his bike right up to the main entrance and parked outside. Ordinarily Alfred would have been there to meet him and complain that he should have driven into the garage, but the entranceway was empty and the main doors were closed, though not locked. He let himself in and made his way through the foyer, past the intact and unburnt library, and down the corridor towards the kitchens. As he got closer he realised he could hear the soft murmuring of voices: Alfred's, and another he couldn't immediately place.

"Hey, Alfred," he called cheerfully as he walked into the small side kitchen where the family always gathered for informal meals. "What's up?"

"Ah! Master Dick." Alfred stood up hurriedly from the table where he'd been sitting, chair legs scraping on the slate floor tiles. "Thank you for coming."

"No problem," Dick said, "I-"

He broke off as Alfred moved out of his line of sight and he saw who he'd been talking to, seated at the other side of the table.

What the _fuck_? He managed not to blurt it out loud, thereby escaping a date with soap and water and Alfred's scrubbing brush, but it was a close run thing.

"Who are you?" the little boy demanded, Gotham Brahmin accent like cut glass.

Who are _you_? Dick thought but resolutely did not say. He was twenty-five years old for heaven's sake, he wasn't going to argue with a _child_.

"He's a very dear friend of mine," Alfred said quickly. "Remember your manners."

The boy hung his head, and murmured, "Yes, Alfred."

Dick looked at him more closely. He couldn't have been more than six, seven at the outside, with a face still round with puppy fat, jet black hair and bright blue eyes, and _that was definitely Damian's hoodie he was wearing_ even if the sleeves were far too long and bunched up at his wrists and elbows.

"Alfred," he said weakly.

"I know," Alfred agreed. "You see why I needed to speak to you?"

"This is… this is _too much_ ," Dick managed to get out.

Alfred looked at him worriedly. "Do you need a drink?" he asked quietly.

"No, I do not need a drink!" Dick snapped. "What I need is for Bruce to clean up his own messes rather than dumping them in everyone else's laps. Where is he?"

Alfred glanced at the child, but the boy had gone back to the puzzle he'd been doing on the dinner table. It was one of the old ones from Bruce's childhood playroom upstairs, a scene from Errol Flynn's _Robin Hood_. Dick remembered working on it with Bruce almost twenty years ago, when he'd first come to the Manor. The memory filled him with a wave of nostalgia and positive feeling towards Bruce, who had tried so hard to make him feel at home when he first arrived, despite being younger then than Dick was now.

"Look," he said more gently, already feeling guilty for snapping at Alfred. "I love that Bruce can't see a child in danger without wanting to do something about it, but this is getting ridiculous. He can't just bring home every orphan he sees."

Alfred smiled at him and shook his head. "I think you've misunderstood, Dick," he said gently.

"I haven't," Dick insisted. "And you don't need to worry, I'm far too old to be jealous, though _Damian_ is going to go ballistic, especially when he sees the hoodie, wait, oh my God. Misunderstood?"

He looked more closely at the kid. He did look an awful lot like Bruce, and not just in the way they all did, the way society matrons and gossip columnists liked to joke about, with the hair and the eyes. He had Bruce's high cheekbones, and the distinctive Wayne chin, just like Damian did.

"Oh, my _God_!" he exclaimed, horrified. "Tell me Talia didn't dump another one here."

"No," Alfred said, and Dick could tell that in his own impeccably mannered way he was trying not to laugh.

"Selina?" he asked. There'd been rumours a few years back she'd been pregnant, though he was pretty sure he'd heard her baby was a girl.

"Alfred," the boy interrupted. "Is it nearly time for dinner?"

Alfred smiled in a way Dick hadn't seen in years, as he crouched down to address the boy at head height.

"Yes, very nearly," he said. "Why don't you go and wash up?"

"Yes, Alfred," the boy agreed, climbing off his chair. He noticed Dick again. "Are you staying for dinner?" he asked. "Alfred made lobster thermidor, it's my favourite, but my parents aren't here, so there'll be enough for you."

"Your _parents_?" Dick asked, voice feeble in his own ears.

"Yes," the boy said proudly. "My father is a very famous surgeon, and he goes to a lot of conferences. Sometimes my mother goes too."

Dick felt his jaw drop.

"When I grow up I'm going to be a doctor too," the boy said, extending his hand. "My name's Bruce. What's yours?"

Dick shook his hand and somehow managed to stammer out his own name.

"Off you go," Alfred said, rescuing him, and the boy – _Bruce?_ – obediently headed out and down the hall to one of the bathrooms.

"No _way_ ," Dick breathed as soon as he was out of earshot. "It's not really?"

"I'm afraid so," Alfred said, but he didn't sound very sorry. "Superman dropped him off this afternoon. Apparently several members of the Justice League are suffering a similar affliction."

"Do they know what caused it?" Dick asked, still struggling to get his head round the thought of Bruce – _Batman_ – in this tiny child's body.

"A simple spell, apparently," Alfred said dryly. "No cause for panic. It'll wear off on its own in twenty four hours, so it's just a matter of keeping him safe until lunchtime tomorrow. Superman had his hands rather full with Flash and Green Lantern, and thought since I'd been able to handle young Master Bruce once I could _probably_ do it again."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Dick asked.

"I am, rather," Alfred admitted. "Seeing him like this, just for a short time, the way he was… before. I'd forgotten he wanted to be a doctor."

"I never knew," Dick said. No need to ask what Alfred meant by _before_. "So why did you need me so urgently? Not that I'm not really glad you called, this was well worth the ride over here, but wouldn't you rather have him to yourself for the night? Quiet night in, just the two of you?"

Alfred grimaced. "Just the two of us, yes."

Right on cue the back door to the kitchen opened and Damian came stomping in. At Alfred's look he took his shoes off and left them by the door rather than track mud through the kitchen, but he was clearly not in a good mood, tossing his backpack into a corner.

"Is that _lobster_?" he asked, sniffing ostentatiously, and not bothering to say hello.

"It is," Alfred confirmed. "But fear not, I made _ful medames_ for you. I hope that will be satisfactory."

"Oh." A smile threatened to crack Damian's face. "Thank you, Pennyworth. That will be perfect."

"Hi, Dami," Dick said. "How was school?"

"Full of imbeciles, as always," Damian sighed. "What are you doing here?"

Before Dick could answer Bruce came back into the room. He was so small he barely came up to Dick's waist, and made Damian look tall by contrast.

Damian took one look at him and flushed angrily. "Is that my hoodie?" he demanded.

"I didn't think you would mind, Master Damian," Alfred said calmly. "It's been very cold this afternoon."

"I _do_ mind," Damian said, voice going shrill. "Next thing you'll be giving away my-"

He wheeled around to glare at Dick, face scarlet with betrayal. " _That's_ why you're here?" he demanded. "You're _replacing_ me?"

"What?" Dick gasped. "No! Of course not."

"He's far too small," Damian continued. "Look at him. This is ridiculous."

"I am not small!" Bruce shouted, hands clenching on his tiny hips. "I'm going to be six feet tall, like my dad. Tell him, Alfred."

"Does he even know how to fight?" Damian demanded. "Who taught him?"

Bruce darted forward, and tiny as he was, he was certainly quick on his feet. He kicked Damian in the shin, then ducked back behind Dick.

"Grayson, you traitor," Damian howled, as Dick planted himself between them and endeavoured to hold them apart without hurting either of them. "Get out of my way."

"Damian!" Alfred said sharply. "Stop this at once."

Damian ignored him, focused on Dick's seeming treachery.

"You promised me!" he shouted. "You agreed we were the best! You said if Father hadn't insisted I come home I could have stayed with you!"

"Damian, calm down," Dick said desperately. "It's not what you think."

"I _think_ ," Damian sneered, "that despite your protestations, you are very like my father and well on your way to building a nest of lookalike sidekicks of your own. You are a _liar_ and I hate you."

Behind him Bruce burst into tears; in front of him Damian's bottom lip was wobbling, and honestly, Dick kind of knew the feeling. He looked desperately at Alfred over the heads of the two miserable boys, and even Alfred looked unsure of what to do next.

There was only one thing that could possibly make the situation worse, so naturally the back door opened again and Tim and Jason walked in.

"Hey, Alfred," Tim said cheerfully as he unwound his scarf and pulled off his gloves. "Look who I ran into. I managed to talk him into-"

"What the hell is this?" Jason interrupted.

Tim looked at him, surprised, then round the room in growing confusion.

"Let's clear off the table," Alfred said, striving for normalcy, "and we can all sit down and catch up over dinner."

"Who's the sprog?" Jason asked, nodding at Bruce.

"Jay," Dick said, pleading wordlessly for Jason to refrain from tossing a match into the rapidly spreading pool of gasoline.

" _Dick_ ," Jason said with a grin that showed way too many teeth. "Was this one left on _your_ doorstep?"

"No!" Dick said. "Come on, Jay."

"He kind of looks like you," Jason went on. "Of course, _you_ kind of look like Bruce."

"You know _nothing_ , Todd," Damian hissed, and Dick was selfishly glad to have his anger turned on someone else. He seized the opportunity to pick a still quietly sobbing Bruce up and carry him back to the table where he wiped his face gently with a linen napkin.

"Come to that," Jason went on, nothing daunted, "we all do. I heard a really funny story about that, actually, from this old guy in a bar."

Tim looked at him sharply. "Stop it, Jason."

"Why?" Jason asked. "Come on. Even you've got to see the funny side. The replacement's replacement's replacement. That's fantastic. Think the demon brat will get Red Robin now? What are you going to call yourself next?"

Tim ignored him, and crossed the kitchen to sit next to Dick.

"Is that really Bruce?" he whispered.

Dick nodded. Tim had always been the most observant of any of them.

Beside them Bruce had stopped crying, but he still looked peaky.

"When is my dad coming home?" he asked quietly. "I want my mom."

"Me too, buddy," Dick agreed. "Me too."

"Maybe I'll be Red Hood instead," Damian said loudly, prompting an angry look from Jason. "It must be your turn to be replaced again."

"Dinner's ready," Alfred announced, before the two could come to blows. "Please clear off that table."

Tim helped Bruce put the puzzle pieces back in the box while Dick got up to get cutlery and plates. Jason and Damian sat down at opposite ends of the table and continued to glare daggers at each other.

Alfred placed a sizzling tray in the middle of the table, lobster shells piled high with cream and mushrooms and topped with sizzling gruyere cheese, on a bed of scalloped potatoes, then went back to get a bowl of bean stew for Damian.

Dick carefully scooped up one of the lobster halves and positioned it on Bruce's plate, relieved to see him start hoeing in without hesitation. He dished himself up a couple of spoons of the potatoes.

"No, but seriously, Alfie," Jason said, as he stabbed viciously at an escaping lobster, splashing butter all over the table. "I'm curious. What happens to _blond_ orphans in Gotham? Is there some special orphanage somewhere, well funded but tucked away out of sight, for all the kids who _don't_ look like Bruce Wayne?"

Bruce looked up at the mention of his name, but fortunately his mouth was full and he was too well brought up to talk till he'd finished chewing.

Alfred ignored Jason and poured himself a very large glass of the brandy he'd used to make the sauce. He caught Dick's eye and Dick nodded. He'd take that drink after all. It was going to be a very long night.


End file.
